


The Moon and Stars

by Silex



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dragons, Family, Fantasy, Fluff, Gen, Growing Up, High Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22753768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/pseuds/Silex
Summary: Shylathenar had always been gregarious for a dragon, her mother had told her that repeatedly when she stayed for decades longer than the rest of her clutchmates.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	The Moon and Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ItsPineTime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsPineTime/gifts).



> Hope you don't mind a late treat!

Shylathenar had always been gregarious for a dragon, her mother had told her that repeatedly when she stayed for decades longer than the rest of her clutchmates. Mother hadn’t minded terribly much, though she eventually drove her off like the rest of them, as was the custom of dragons. They were solitary creatures by nature after all and Shylathenar quickly found that she took to a lonely life quite well.

The thrill of claiming a territory, driving out any beasts that might contest her rule and reveling in the feeling of triumph of having so much that belonged to her had filled her with a strong sense of pride. She was a dragon, free to rule over whatever she chose to claim as hers. Gathering a hoard was exhilarating, requiring ambushing trade caravans that wound across the vast desert, finding mages and witches who’d become lost searching for ruins said to house unimaginable wealth and extorting anything of value from them.

Her greatest triumph, the one that stories of which would eventually bring a mate to her, was a hundred yearlong battle of wits with a sphinx. The great, shaggy lion maned woman hadn’t cared for wealth, but she refused to let any enter the mountain pass she had claimed, even to collect the treasure from the dead that she had tossed from the high cliffs when they proved unable to answer her riddles.

Possessing powerful magics of her own and a fearsome set of ram’s horns that could pierce even dragon hide, the sphinx had proved a difficult puzzle to solve. Each time Shylathenar approached the sphinx would challenge her with a riddle and Shylathenar would answer, then respond with one of her own. It was as fierce as any battle of locked tooth and claw and it raged on and on, each probing for a weakness in the other.

When the sphinx learned of Shylathenar’s fear of the water her riddles took on a nautical bent or involved things from across the oceans. Shylathenar meanwhile played on the sphinx’s pride and the knowledge that she would always answer truthfully.

The sphinx’s pride proved to be her undoing in the end when Shylathenar presented her with a riddle that she had spent years carefully composing. Wrapped up in wordplay from several different languages and allusions to the legends of great heroes of old, human and otherwise, it took the sphinx the better part of the day simply to decipher the question, which was, ‘what can pierce the hide of a beast that dragon fire cannot singe and can turn aside any claw or sword’.

The sphinx, rather than admit defeat, explained to Shylathenar how she might be slain and then left so that no human hero might ever use that knowledge to seek revenge against her.

Unlike the sphinx, Shylathenar had no interest in killing humans, rather she demanded tribute from those seeking to travel through the newly liberated mountain pass. Gold, valuables or magic, and then she guided them to safety, for she knew the fable of the roc bird – kill it and you ate well for a week, let it nest on your mountain and there would be an egg for you every decade. Patience was a hard won virtue amongst dragons and Shylathenar prided herself in possessing it to excess.

Besides, though the languages of humans were many and varied, taking the time to learn them meant that she never lacked someone to talk to. It was something that she had missed since leaving her mother, having someone to talk to.

Shylathenar was, as dragons went, a benevolent queen, or so she liked to think.

With their fleeting, frantic lives humans provided no end of fascination, everyone having a distinct story, distinct experiences and so many of them. She felt a kinship to the strange, ephemeral creatures, just as she hoarded wealth they hoarded experience.

Every human had, not just one story, but many, and unlike treasure, those stories could be shared and grew richer in the retelling. An aged caravan guard would become a young warrior as he told his stories of fighting along the shores of the red-salt sea. Mages grew vibrant talking about their studies, asking for some bit of knowledge from her, or explaining what they sought in ruins that Shylathenar hadn’t even set eyes on in all her years as ruler of the desert.

The ruins existed though, she believed that, for even a dragon was young next to the mountains and there were things even older than the mountains.

There were even times where she helped them seek out their ruins. Always she guided them back when their search proved fruitless, but she was patient and agreed that someday such a place might be found.

She would claim much of the wealth there as her own, but she wasn’t above using humans and their stories to help her seek it.

It wasn’t something that she worried about though, for it laying amidst a vast pile of coins and gems, some from far off lands, did wonders to sooth one’s mind and drive away worry.

In time males sought her out, her victory over the sphinx and her claim to the mountain pass and all the wealth that flowed thought it, bringing many suitors.

The vast majority she found wanting, seeking to impress her with their might and ferocity.

The ones that tried flattery fared better and eventually, a thin, serpentine male won her over. He was a sickly looking thing, with cloudy yellow eyes and tattered wings, but he knew the right things to say and he hoarded knowledge rather than wealth. That he introduced himself with a question rather than a boast made him fascinating enough to humor. Having had troubles of his own with a trio of young sphinxes besieging his library, he wanted to know how she’d dealt with the one in her mountains.

From there the two of them became friends, in as much as dragons could be friends, and he plied her with gifts of silks and beautifully carved bookshelves and scroll racks made from exotic and fragrant hardwoods from over the oceans.

Eventually his persistence, more than his gifts, won her over and she rearranged her hoard, fashioning a nest of carefully arranged gold coins.

By the time he returned to his library, confident that he would be able to defeat the sphinxes thanks to her advice, she was left with two eggs and his promise that he would return when the sphinxes were taken care of.

She believed him, for it was like the fable of the flower beneath the tree. Weak and lovely things sought the protection of the strong.

Besides, with the eggs to care for she was glad to see him go. As much as she cared for him, as was the nature of dragons, she was innately possessive and wanted her eggs to be hers alone. If he’d tried to claim one as his own and take it back with him, as males occasionally did, defeating him in battle would have been easy, but it was fight she had no desire for.

Fortunately he left peacefully and she was able to brood over her eggs in tranquil solitude.

They were beautiful and watching their shells grow harder by the day, losing their pearlescent luster, tempered through the heat of her fire until they were as dull and hard as stone, filled her with pride.

Like two granite boulders, they sat in their nest of gold, still and silent.

It would be another hundred years at least before they first began to sing and naming them would be necessary, but they still held Shylathenar transfixed.

Caring for them occupied much of her time, for they could hardly be left alone for a season at a stretch, but it was a joyful labor.

She still managed to protect and guide the trade caravans and continue to acquire wealth, as well as fly circuits of her territory to see that none dared intrude, but she didn’t linger as she previously had.

Shylathenar wasn’t negligent, not by any means, but it meant that she was sometimes slow to find lost travelers.

Too slow in the case of one man and woman that she found.

Humans didn’t fare as well in the desert as dragons, but they tried admirably anyway and in proper draconic fashion Shylathenar felt the best tribute to their efforts was to look through their belongings and see what of value they carried to add to her hoard and recall where she found those trinkets each time she gazed on them.

Maps and scrolls and notes proved that the pair were mages seeking the fabled ruins and perhaps they’d made it farther than most, carrying a guide needle that didn’t point North, but swung in slow, wavering loops, occasionally settling in one direction or another for a time. This needle, they’d believed would guide them to something and if they were correct the needle itself was a great treasure.

It wasn’t the most valuable thing they carried though.

A bundle of soft cloth, wrapped in the woman’s arms and shaded from the merciless sun held something of unimaginable value, at least according to the woman’s notes on their journey.

The child was still alive, barely, and Shylathenar, sympathetic with the thought of her own clutch, carried it back with her.

A soft thing, so fragile next to her eggs, like a porcelain vase or the brightly painted and adorned bird eggs that some humans made, the child was strange to her.

She had seen human children before of course, but none so small or fragile.

Similar to a young dragon it didn’t have words and it did sing, but its songs were odd. Shrill like a bird or the wind when it was in need and soft like rain flowing down the far side of the mountains, or a hidden spring in the desert when it was content.

Like the young of any furred beast, which humans were akin to, it had no teeth of its own and needed constant care.

It slowly quickly regained its strength on a diet of honey, magic and the blood and milk of the wild goats that lived amongst the mountain crags. In less than a year it was actively exploring her lair, crawling at first, but in just a season more it was walking properly.

Caring for it was good practice for her eventual hatchlings and Shylathenar began to think of it as a sibling to her eggs.

It was difficult for Shylathenar to be certain, for all young humans looked and sounded the same, but she felt that the human child was female, though without scales or horns there was no hint other than its singing, which grew more and more like human words by the day.

The child sounded female though, it sang like a female egg at least and Shylathenar based her assumption on that when she named the child Thallareneth, a fitting name for such a small, fragile female.

Thallareneth learned her name quickly once it was given, though saying it properly took far more time. With such a small, soft mouth, little teeth and no fire in her throat it was amazing that the child was able to say it at all. She learned Shylathenar’s name much faster, singing it in the chirping cadence of a hatchling.

And oh did Thallareneth sing! Like a bird in the morning when she woke up and in the evenings when she wanted to continue to explore caves. Just as any hatchling, she would get into spaces too small for Shylathenar to follow and hiss and growl to hear her voice echo, amplified by the caverns.

Shylathenar taught her to speak as best as she was able, delighting in the childish hisses and squeals, especially the shrill noises that Thallareneth made when she was happy. Thallareneth would never speak like a true dragon, but brought up on it, she spoke the language far better than any other human. It was another peculiarity of the child, in addition to her softness, that she never gave any hint of human speech, the sounds she made remaining unformed. It seemed, that unlike with dragons the language of humans was not innate, which Shylathenar supposed made their multitude of languages make sense.

Thallareneth was precocious and as much trouble as any hatchling her size might have been, but she was also innately nurturing. After Shylathenar warmed the eggs with her breath Thallareneth would help her clean the ash from them as soon as they were cool enough for her to touch, wiping them clean and rubbing them with fragrant oils until they shone like rain slick rocks.

Her sisters she called them, or brothers, depending on the mood she was in, for Thallareneth took well to being a solitary hatchling, which was a good thing as caring for her demanded much of Shylathenar’s time, far more so than her eggs.

By the time she was four years old Shylathenar felt that it would be safe for Thallareneth to start venturing out of the caves and to explore the outside world.

“Mother! Mother! What’s that?” Thallareneth had cried, stretching up her arms to the moon and stars as though she might catch them in her stubby little fingers.

Seeing the way that Thallareneth stretched out her arms, fingers spread as wide as possible Shylathenar remembered her first time outside, seeing the sky and the sun and how she’d spread her wings and flown until she was exhausted. It had been her first real flight and in the way Thallareneth ran in circles, long hair streaming behind her, along the flat expanse at the mouth of the cave Shylathenar saw some of that.

Shylathenar spread her wings and gave them a testing flap.

Thallareneth screamed and jumped backwards, letting out shrill cries of delight, for she’d never seen Shylathenar spread her wings to their full extent in the caves.

Shylathenar leapt into the air and flew for the simple joy of it, Thallareneth running in circles beneath her.

“Catch me one!” She called out, pointing at the stars, “I want one!”

Shylathenar roared, amused flames licking between her teeth, smoke wreathing her head. Soft and human, Thallareneth was still like any other child in her wanting.

When she flew low the wind of her wings sent Thallareneth tumbling, but she jumped right back up, her eyes shining with such wonder and delight that if she’d had the flame in her throat Shylathenar was certain that it would have kindled for the first time and she would breathe out her first sparks and puffs of smoke.

It was possibly good that humans lacked flame, Shylathenar decided in that moment, for enough of her treasure could be set ablaze that it was a concern, especially with the way children loved to watch things burn. Even Thallareneth loved watching her warm the eggs and the way fire curled around them. She’d poke the embers with bits of wood to see them flare up and watch incense smoke curl for hours when Shylathenar decided to light some.

Shylathenar landed and held out her claws, palm upwards.

Thallareneth ran to look, baring her teeth in joy and then disappointment, wrinkling her face so that it looked like one of the warding masks that some humans carried to frighten away things of the night and the unseen.

Her disappointment lasted until Shylathenar snatched her up and took to the air again.

Thallareneth screamed, the closest she could manage to a roar, and spread her arms out from between Shylathenar’s talons.

“Higher!” She hissed with the yearning of any hatchling, “We’ll catch one!”

Her little human hands curved like claws, like she was hunting for the first time and had claws that itched to grasp her first real prey.

Shylathenar flew it loops and circles, in patterns that she hadn’t traced since she was young and flying was new to her.

Up and up until the night air grew colder and then down in a way that made her stomach drop.

Thallareneth screamed and clapped and clawed frantically at empty air.

“We almost had it,” she gasped breathlessly, “Try again! We need to catch two!”

Shylathenar flapped with all her might, up to where she could feel the air getting thin, and then rolled over to that Thallareneth could reach up before they began to drop back down.

“Almost!” Thallareneth panted, as though it was through her effort that they flew, “You can have the fat blue one!”

She pointed at the rain star, whose appearance would pull clouds in from the sea and bring rain to the desert. Soon, following its path, the caravans would start up.

“We can try,” Shylathenar agreed.

The two of them chased the stars and moon until the horizon grew pink with the coming dawn and the stars faded.

Shylathenar landed and Thallareneth dropped to the ground. She sat there, arms crossed and scowling, “We nearly got the big one. Then it hid.”

“I might have one of its children,” Shylathenar said thoughtfully, smoke curling from between her fangs. It had been ages since she’d had so much fun simply flying, “Let’s go see.”

Thallareneth watched the smoke, sensing some trick, for she was quite insightful for such a young child. Humans it seemed, learned fast.

She followed Shylathenar back into the cave, running and stumbling to keep up.

Carefully Shylathenar searched through her collection. Normally when going through small boxes and chests she would ask Thallareneth for assistance as her hands, though clumsy with youth, were still so much better for grasping things than claws. It was why no dragon would ever weave the fluttering silks that Shylathenar was so fond of, humans though, without fire or magics of their own, they still managed to work wonders.

At last she found what she was looking for, a box of large, but poorly formed and colored, silvery pearls, as irregular and pitted as the moon.

“Here,” she handed a particularly large one to Thallareneth, for there was no harm in giving a child something so small and of such little value, “One of the moon’s children. It’s yours.”

Thallareneth’s eyes lit up, the first inklings of possessiveness growing within her.

Prideful flames swelled within Shylathenar’s chest as she watched her human daughter scramble off to a small side cave, the opening too narrow for Shylathenar to fit through. Thallareneth had claimed that hiding place as her own and now was placing the pearl within, like a seed from which, in time, a proper hoard would.

The rains would be coming soon, and after them the caravans, and if Thallareneth was old enough to fly she was old enough to learn to demand tribute. This year, when she resumed her patrol Shylathenar would take her daughter with her, which meant more lessons for the girl.

She was a quick learner though and Shylathenar was sure that she would rise to the occasion.

In the meantime Shylathenar was also certain that she had a few rather badly flawed star sapphires in her hoard that she wouldn’t mind parting with, especially not with how much they were certain to delight Thallareneth when she saw them.

Yes, she decided, when the caravans came, to celebrate her daughter’s first venturing out into the world, she would present Thallareneth with a bag of stars.


End file.
